


Click, Lick

by mattysones



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Other, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattysones/pseuds/mattysones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Switzerland is not pleased to have turned into satellite state, so France slips him a little something to loosen him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Click, Lick

**Author's Note:**

> 1800-ish. After Switzerland was made into a satellite state by Napoleon. Also, French manners say that both your hands stay on the dinner table. If Wikipedia is to be trusted, Switzerland pretty much has the same manners. Based off that MMV of Switzerland licking a gun sexily. Originally posted 2009.

Switzerland was a little too uptight, France thought. That much tension couldn't be good for Switzerland's health, he needed to take a break. After all, who wouldn't want to live in his house? France had culture, he had money, he had good food, and his army was spectacular right now. The best in the world even! The way Switzerland acted when France had generously invited him to his house was appalling. France attributed it to his German side. That was it. Maybe Switzerland enjoyed living like a peasant.

France hummed to himself as he chopped greens meant for tonight's meal. Maybe he could get Switzerland to be a little more ... agreeable. No one could say France wasn't accommodating to the willing. After all, France didn't like having unwilling guests in his house, but war was war and sometimes it just couldn't be helped. France had given him a comfortable room, treated him to his cooking (he could get the servants to cook whenever, but no, France opted to do it himself, how nice of him!) nevertheless Switzerland had complained. Loudly, that was sure. Something had to be done. Couldn't have uprisings out of his little neighbor, could he?

Two pots sat on France's stove. Their contents were identical until France dumped the greens into one. He took a breath as he watched them boil. A satisfied grin spread over his face. Yes, he would get Switzerland to be more agreeable.

Switzerland jumped when he heard a light knock at his door. The desk France had provided him was covered with papers and maps and he had been hunched over them for the last few hours. His back cracked as he sat up and shoved a few stray notes into a top drawer. His door opened to reveal a servant.

"Dinner is in half an hour Mr. Helvetii."

Switzerland openly cringed at the name but nodded. The servant bowed and left.

Helvetii was the name France had given him. He hated it. It had been France's boss' idea to try and change him, and where better to start but with his name? His identity. Switzerland would be sure to mention it at dinner, if he didn't shoot France in the face first.

Switzerland reached beneath the desk and felt for the loose panel hidden. He hooked his fingers in the rough wood, smiling wickedly as a heavy weight fell into his palm. Pausing to make sure he didn't drop it, he ran his fingers over the smooth wooden handle of his pistol. France didn't know he had it. It was the only thing he owned right now that made him feel in control, and he couldn't even represent his people with it. France would effectively crush any true rebellion from him, Switzerland knew. He clutched the handle and slid the pistol inside his vest. His clothes were getting loose, France wouldn't notice the steel pressing against Switzerland's ribs.

France was chattering with the maids when Switzerland arrived in the dining hall. The table was too long for just the two of them but only one end was set. France's face lit as Switzerland wordlessly took his place at the table.

"Helvetii! You are on time!" France said, delighted. He placed a kiss on Switzerland's cheek before flitting off, missing Switzerland's face screwing up in disgust.

France took his own seat, pausing to look at Switzerland's face and pouting at the sour expression, "Oh please, Helvetii, don't be so dour. You'll ruin the meal." France clapped his hands cheerfully and took up his napkin, "Bon appetite!"

Switzerland stiffly placed his napkin on his lap. Ruin dinner indeed. Switzerland couldn't recall a pleasant dinner since he had been in this house. He kept his voice in check and replied softly, "Perhaps I wouldn't be so dour if you called me by my name."

France smiled indulgently as he ate his salad, "You know my boss doesn't give me much choice on the matter. I will call you what my people call you." He took another bite. Switzerland's hand slipped off the table, and if France noticed the gesture he didn't mention it.

"I would be grateful," Switzerland ground out. He stabbed his own salad roughly, "if you didn't call me by that name."

France studied the infuriated blond pointedly as he drained his wine glass. Setting it down, he leaned forward with the back of his hand on his cheek and smiled charmingly, "Helvetii."

The table rattled as Switzerland slammed his hands down and stood violently, "Good night." He snarled, and pushed his chair back.

"Helvetii." France frowned and watched Switzerland's retreating back. "Helvetii." France swore, "Zwingli."

Switzerland froze. France didn't smile this time, "You will at least eat the soup I worked so hard to make you." he said gently. Tensely, but gently. Like an irritated parent instructing their disobedient child.

"I'm not much hungry, thank you." Switzerland's throat strained as he refrained from screaming at the man behind him. He started to walk again.

"Vash," Smooth. Switzerland hesitated at the dark tone in France's voice, "I see you getting thinner. You will eat or I will have my servants tie you like a pig and drain scalding soup down your throat."

Switzerland had no doubt he would. He sat down, glaring at the table as his mostly full salad plate was removed and a bowl of soup came into his vision. His hands trembled as he took a spoon and scooped out a potato. There. He ate.

"All of it, Vash." France said absently. He wasn't even looking. Switzerland mentally let loose a plethora of curses and continued eating.

When he was finished, and after France forced him to eat a second bowl, Switzerland lay his spoon on his bowl, "Thank you." he said thickly, "May I leave now?"

"Hmm."

Switzerland stood. He could feel France's eyes as he walked away. Watch all you want, Switzerland thought vehemently. He would have preferred another dramatic, loud exit but after the cool way France was regarding him it would have been petulant. Instead, he took comfort in letting his hand stray to his side and feeling the hard metal beneath his vest. He'd get away eventually. He always did, and no one would have any say in his affairs any longer.

France smiled brightly when the dining room door closed.

**  
There was a hollow wall in Switzerland's room. France was honestly surprised that Switzerland hadn't discovered it yet, not that he was complaining. It had been installed for spying of the non-voyeuristic kind, but France was always willing to find new uses for things. That's what "experimentation" was, right? France grinned to himself. Yes, he was conducting an experiment.

France wondered vaguely if Switzerland had "been" with anyone else before. He knew Italy and the Holy Roman Empire had tried to take his house before (that prick Austria then, perhaps?) but Switzerland always found a way to kick them out, eventually. He was a bit of a hermit. Probably never touched himself either. Ohhoho, that would change tonight.

France stifled a yawn. He had been in and out of his hiding place four or five times to check on his guest (Musk was really not an appealing scent, it was bothering him), and Switzerland never moved from his spot hovering over paperwork. No, Switzerland had stood up once to stretch his back, and France had given a sympathy wince at the loud pop which came from it.

Then Switzerland had sat down.

And hadn't moved from his place since.

France pouted and decided that the boy (Boy, man? He was old enough to be a man, sure didn't look it. France could work with that) was made of ice. His "special" soup worked every time. Maybe he hadn't put enough herbs in? Or maybe Switzerland had learned to kill any form of desire out of sheer desperation and isolation. France gave a horrified gasp at the thought.

He started when he heard a low moan come the other side of the wall. France leaned into his peephole and could see Switzerland sprawled over the desk. He must have fallen asleep, France thought, and squinted in hopes of any signs of life. Switzerland's hands twitched and he shifted his head against his arms, but nothing else. France sighed and pulled away.

If Switzerland was going to sleep through the effects he might as well leave now, France grouched to himself. He pouted and gave one last peek. Of course, something interesting happened right then.

Still asleep, Switzerland breathed in heavily, almost gulping before letting out short, small breaths against his arms. His eyes fluttered open, confusion glossing his features. He stretched his legs, sitting up dazedly, giving an unconscious stretch with his torso before flopping backwards in his chair, still breathing heavily.

France allowed a devilish grin; This was encouraging.

**  
He was hot. Not the kind of outside-hot that made him sweat, or the kind of inside-hot from exercising, but a fuzzy kind of inside-hot that made his head cloudy and limbs heavy. Switzerland blinked as he tried to focus on the wallpaper above him. His head rolled against the chair, a sudden shiver running up his spine and he gasped again.

He needed to lie down.

Switzerland pushed his chair back, stumbling as he found the bed and threw himself on it. He buried his face in the plush covers, reveling in their untouched chill.

His pistol was pressing uncomfortably against his side. He shifted so the metal didn't poke his ribs as hard. The movement rocked his hips against the bed.

"Hnn," Switzerland shuddered and rocked his hips again, again. Heat built up in the small of his back, his fingers curled into the bedspread as he continued moving, and rocking and moving, stopping only when he heard the explosive moan from the back of his own throat.

Oh lord, he knew what that feeling was now. Switzerland rolled over and covered his face with clenched hands.

"Fuck." His legs shook as he shifted his waist up, unconsciously trying to relieve the pressure. Switzerland took a deep shuddering breath, trying not to focus on his straining trousers.

He lightly bit his palm in frustration, feeling how flushed his face was against his hands. He tilted his head back and breathed. And waited.

**  
France was aware that his grin had turned into a smirk. His fingers flitted across the waist of his trousers as he listened to Switzerland swear. France couldn't say he wasn't used to used to it from England. Except from an outsider's point it got annoying watching someone let their frustrations build up when there were... obvious solutions. Except Switzerland wasn't like England, was he? Not a bit. England wouldn't be trying to will away that painful looking erection.

"Oh no," France thought gleefully, "That's not going anywhere," and his smirk grew when he realized Switzerland was working at the buttons of his vest.

**  
Switzerland realized his hands were shaking. Somewhere in his foggy brain he wondered why he had never been this worked up before, and why simply waiting had worked but not this time. Usually he was too preoccupied to be worrying about the regions below his waist. They weren't vital compared to the troubles France was giving him right now ...

And then it dawned on him: France. Dinner. He must have slipped him something. Switzerland swore loudly.

His pistol nudged against his side, and he slid the weapon out of his now open vest, warm from being so close. Holding it up to study the intricate designs in the metal, the lines of tree rings in the handle, it wasn't his favorite. It was lovely though, Switzerland thought, absently chewing the pad of his thumb. He dropped his hand and the pistol to his thigh, flinching when a jolt ran from his groin to his gut.

Tilting his head back, Switzerland stared blearily at the ceiling. Hate him as he might, he was feeling pretty good, Switzerland admitted begrudgingly. The hand he was chewing made its way south. Switzerland let out a relieved breath when he palmed the prominent bulge, hips rocking gently into his hand. His fingers flexed against the pistol. Without thinking, he moved his arm, slowly dragging the pistol up his hip, shivering at the cooling metal. It felt like sparks were coursing through his skin. He chewed his lip lightly as he absently kicked off his shoes and spread his legs, bracing his feet against the mattress. He ground the heal of his palm against his crotch, dragging the barrel of his pistol from his hip to his stomach, nudging it up his undershirt. He shivered at the hard pressure against his belly.

What was he doing?

His hand traveled from groin to pelvis, fingers pressing in the dip and fingertips trailing and scraping lightly. He shivered.

The thumb on his pistol strayed to the hammer. Switzerland's breath caught as he flicked it.

**  
France nearly wept with joy.  
**

Click.

The thin barrel pressed into his skin, his heart jumping at the movement of the pistol's hammer.

Click.

Switzerland watched. It felt like he was observing instead of making the actions himself. His undershirt bunched around his neck as he trailed the metal up his chest, paused and pressed the barrel onto a nipple.

Click.

It was over his heart. His index slid onto the trigger. His breath shuddered.

Click.

His fingers slipped beneath the still buttoned waist his trousers, pressing lightly on his pelvis, avoiding the subtle curve that marked the beginning of his erection.

Click.

His eyes slid closed. Pulling his hand away from his groin he dragged it up his stomach, passed his chest and buried a hand in his hair. His palm gently pushed against his temple. He groaned quietly as his hips rocked up, feeling the friction from his own cloths pull at his cock. The pistol found its way to his lower lip, pressing. Switzerland opened his eyes slightly, peering down at his own hand. His tongue flicked out, experimentally touching the metal against his mouth. His trigger finger twitched.

Click.

It was in his mouth. A shiver of shame ran through him as he ran his tongue over the curves and patterns of metal, faintly tasting gunpowder. The hand in his hair moved over his side, down his back and to the back of his thigh.

Click.

Switzerland pulled the pistol from his mouth and pointed it away, looking at the saliva clinging to the barrel. His fingers drummed nervously over his thigh, tapping hesitantly before trailing around and down and pushing against his still clothed sac. His cock give an interested jump. The pistol lie on his stomach with the barrel pointing down. His thumb rubbed against the wooden handle, his index finger still twitching against the trigger.

**  
France was gaping. Oh, he had seen plenty in his days and this really was nothing. He just hadn't expected it. A quick couple of jerks, some more swearing and then Switzerland would sleep.

He hadn't expected the sight of Switzerland practically writhing on his bed, back arching, skin flushed and was he licking the gun? Oh Switzerland was a lovely little specimen if France had ever seen one. Now if he could get him to do something about that stupid haircut ...

Click.

France shuddered when he heard a high-pitched moan come from the other side of the wall. He leaned into his peephole again and nearly bit his tongue. There he was, head thrown back, hips rocking rapidly into his hands. His pistol was pressed into his balls and free hand grasping what it could of his cock through his trousers. Switzerland's shoulders flexed against the bed, sending his back into an arch, legs spreading wide, wider.

Click.

France was sure they both moaned.

**  
He was panting. Switzerland alternated between biting his lips and licking them, feeling them swell, turning his head into his shoulder as he gasped with each little tug and pull, each tremor down his spine.

I need to... Switzerland groaned. He released his cock and started working one-handed on his trouser buttons. The pistol pressed against his groin, shifting with each twitch and raise of his body. He needed something to press against, something to make ease the pressure, make the heat in his body build. His fingers trembled, fumbling with each button as he rocked desperately into his own hands.

Click.

His fingers tingled against the metal. His legs shook as he pushed his trousers down his thighs.

Click.

Switzerland swore when he realized his stockings were still tied, and settled for bunching his trousers around his knees. He paused for a moment to shrug off the vest that was still clinging to him, and yanking off his still buttoned undershirt. Too many fucking buttons.

His breath still shuddered when he lay back down, resting his hands lightly on his stomach. The air suddenly felt cooler than it had, making him aware of his nipples hardening, his now exposed cock. Switzerland closed his eyes and released a tremulous breath before reaching and grabbing himself roughly.

A violent shudder ran through him and he bucked, hard.

His free hand played absently in the bedspread, he moaned at the feeling of his own precum spreading cool over his fingers. He arched. His knees strained against the confinements around his knees, and he pressed his hips down, shivering. Switzerland opened his eyes, peering down at the pistol that still lay against his thigh.

He reached for it.

Turning it over gently, he slid the smooth wooden handle over his sac, pressing up, rocking with the movement, then moving lower. He wasn't sure, but thought he heard a whimper choke from his throat when he pressed the pistol's handle not quite against his asshole, a whimper with a cascade of heat and sparks and shudders washing through him. He pressed the handle up hard, jolting with wave of pleasure, pulling the hand around his cock up roughly and arching, moaning loudly ... and then, and then, it was gone.

**  
Switzerland wasn't sure how long he lay there idly stroking himself, but once his head came back from the clouds he was horrified at his state. He glared at his hands, dripping and crusting with his own spend and he knew, he had to take it out on someone.

He turned his eyes to a spot on the wall. He lifted his pistol and aimed.

The shot rang in his ears and his hand jerked from the rebound but he smiled viciously at the smoking hole in the wall.

"Get out." He snarled.

**

France was glad, the next afternoon, that Switzerland neglected to comment on the singed parts of his hair.


End file.
